Jim gently squeezed Sherlock's sides, reminding him of the present. Before he could win the race, he to get into the starting gate*. The official pointed to a stall, and Sherlock entered it without any direction from Jim; he had done this enough times to know what he had to do. Minutes passed by, and eventually the gates closed, locking jockeys and horses inside their white-barred jails. Some of the other horses began to shift and neigh in distress, uncomfortable being confined in such a small place, but it didn't bother Sherlock. He and Jim were both fixated on the finish line; everything else was just a distraction and unworthy of their time.

The starting bell went off; the gates flew open; twenty horses rushed forward and twenty jockeys leaned down, all with one thing on their minds: winning.

Sherlock took an early lead, his legs stretching out and pulling him to the front of the pack. Adrenaline pounded through him, and he could feel Jim's hands tighten on his reins*. Bits and pieces of the track flew up around them as Sherlock's hooves pounded against the ground.

It was then that everything began to blur, the ground lurching from beneath his feet and the cheers from the crowd deepening until they no longer sounded human. One of the other horses began to catch up, drawing even with Sherlock and Jim, his stride lengthening until he pulled forward and passed them. Sherlock watched him go, saw the way the horse's bay coat shimmered beneath the afternoon sun, and smiled to himself. Despite the way Jim was keeping pressure on his mouth, Sherlock knew that in just a few moments it would disappear.

Five... Four... Three... Two... One...

The bay had grown complacent, his jockey not keeping an eye out for a challenge, and Sherlock and Jim took advantage of that. Though the world was spinning and his body was screaming at him to stop, the moment the pressure eased off his mouth, Sherlock thundered forward, overtaking the bay with ease and continuing his near-blind charge to the end of the track. The finish line was in sight, and he could feel the way Jim's legs were clenched around his belly in anticipation, could see the crop* rising and falling- though it never touched him. It was strange, though, how the world was suddenly silent and turning black. It was all slightly too still, too calm...

It wasn't a photo-finish; it wasn't even close. Sherlock crossed the finish line at least twenty strides before his closest competitor. The first thing he felt, though, was that the moment he won, the world came roaring back into focus, the black around his vision disappearing and the strange deafness vanishing in the face of the crowd's fanatic cheering.

Jim kept him galloping, of course, slowly easing Sherlock down to a canter, then a trot and finally to a prancing walk* which he kept as he was led to the Winner's Circle. He stood patiently as a blanket of flowers was laid over his neck and a thousand photographs were taken. He even managed to keep still as Jim and the Morans were interviewed, despite the now-shouting part of his mind demanding that he go find John.

His patience was nearly gone when he felt a small tug on the reins and saw Sebastian take hold of them. The man's face was a mask of joy, but Sherlock could see that he was on the verge of one of his manic stages. It was always best to offer as little resistance as possible when he was like that, which was fine with Sherlock; he wanted to get back to his stall as quickly as possible anyway.

The walk back was over nearly the moment it began, or so it seemed to him, and he was soon back in his stall. Sebastian was quickly removing all the tack- bridle thrown over his shoulder and saddle resting on his forearm. He then slid Sherlock's halter on and began to walk away, needing to get brushes and to find a quiet place where he could leave the the tack so he could go back to clean it in solitude.

When he returned, Sebastian had a curry brush and a regular brush in his hands, as well as his usual hoof pick. He was quick but thorough, making sure that Sherlock was well brushed and clean after the race. Having to take care of fungus because he hadn't taken enough care to brush down properly wasn't something Sebastian wanted to do.

Finished, he stood back and looked Sherlock over.

"Well, a deal's a deal. I'll put John in the next stall."

He then strode away, hands deep in his pockets, completely unaware of the way Sherlock's ears had flicked forward and his entire body had begun to tremble.

John was tired, so very tired, but he was willing to let Sebastian lead him back to the stable. He made no move to show his displeasure at being put in a standing stall, merely plodded in. He felt the man's oddly affectionate pat on the rump and heard the sound of his retreating steps.

His descent into sleep was halted by an inquiring whinny from the stall next to his.

"Sherlock? Is that you?" he asked softly, too tired to mask his weariness.

"John? John, are... Are you all right?" cam the muffled reply.

"Yeah, I'm fine, just... tired." He didn't have to be able to see into Sherlock's mind to know that that wasn't going to satisfy his pushy stall mate. "Really, I'm fine. I just didn't get enough sleep."

"John..."

"It's nothing, Sherlock."

"I don't like that you're lying to me."

"And I don't like that you're being a pain in my arse. Just let it be, Sherlock."

"...What if I don't?"

John sighed, wishing he weren't stuck with someone so inquisitive.

"Please? We can talk about it later, but right now... Right now, I just want to sleep."

There was a brief shuffling, then the sound of something bumping into the wall he shared with the box stall next to him. It brought a small sense of relief to him, hearing Sherlock knock against the wall.

"Good night, Sherlock."

"...Good night, John."

John was woken up by the sound of a crack like a gunshot. He was immediately at full attention, his muscles tensed and ears pricked forward. A second later, there was more rumbling- a roll of thunder that reminded him that he was no longer in New York City, was no longer a police horse. These weren't gunshots; there weren't any people he had to cover. Relief flooded through him, and a slightly desperate giggle made its way through his throat.

Another noise, however, got his attention. It was a dull thud, like the sound his human partner had often made when he punched a wall after someone got hurt, only this time it was much heavier. Curious, John backed out of his stall. (There was a band at the back end of the stall, but it was too high to be able to block him in, and his reputation as an obedient horse meant that no one had tied him in.) When he was free, he saw Sherlock in such a state his mind shot back to his days in New York; one of the strongest calming techniques flashed across his mind: feign nonchalance.

Sherlock stood with his side pressed hard against the locked doors and trembled. Because his coat was so dark, it was hard to tell where the dark horse ended and the shadows around him began. His head was flung back, his strange grey eyes rolling- the whites stark in the midnight darkness that lie within the stable. John stood a few lengths away, whuffling at the ground and occasionally nipping at stray pieces of hay, but even as he shifted slightly and feigned nonchalance, his entire attention was trained on the Sherlock. His blue eyes never moved from Sherlock's face, never risked the chance of Sherlock seeing him with his eyes closed.

With a final breath, John took his first step forward.

Sherlock looked at him and snorted but didn't do anything threatening, so John took another. Then another... and another... until they were standing at right angles and would have been nearly nose-to-nose, had their heads been in their usual positions. Carefully, John lifted his head and nosed at Sherlock's neck. The muscles there were trembling and tense, so he slowly rubbed his face along Sherlock's impossibly long neck. When Sherlock didn't become more upset, John carefully began to walk. He kept the side of his face pressed against Sherlock's body and continued taking slow steps until the two were side-to-side, only facing opposite directions.

Again, thunder called out in the distance, and Sherlock began to tremble.

In return, John pressed closer and did something he hadn't done since he was a foal; he turned his neck and rested his head on the top of Sherlock's rump. Another, stronger, tremor passed through the taller horse's body, but the trembling stopped.

John soon fell asleep and didn't wake until morning when a slightly baffled stable worker found them in nearly the same position, but by then, Sherlock's head had come to rest on John.

A/N: Because I live somewhere where horse racing is big, I'm not sure how much people who don't live around it know about it, so if some of my explanations or pictures seem patronizing, I want to tell you that that's not my intention. I just want to cover all the bases. (If you haven't seen it, I'd suggest watching "Seabiscuit" which is a movie about the famous race horse- and it's pretty entertaining, not just for horse enthusiasts.)

Also, the track is in the shape of an oval, in case that part wasn't making sense.

*Starting gate-
http:/ / www. baltimorecountywebsite. com/ gallery/ main. php?g2_view=core. DownloadItem&g2_itemId=75&g2_serialNumber=2

*Reins: the part of the bridle that the rider holds in his/her hands, or, in some cases, feet-
http:/ / www. trail-rite. com/ catalog/ images/ TR-Beta-Roping-reins. jpg

*Crop: a stick used to discipline a communicate with a horse; shorter than a whip and used when a person is mounted as opposed to on foot; comes in different colors, sizes and shapes; used primarily in English riding; in racing, it is often used more because the horse can see it than as a way to hit the horse-
http:/ / www. bigdweb. com/ images/ 1875. jpg

*Gallop, canter, trot, walk: the four gaits of a horse in the English discipline, from fastest to slowest; in Western riding, it's gallop, lope, jog, walk.